


칼부림

by quagmireisadora



Series: To Live [1]
Category: K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/F, F/M, Food, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, JongHo side-pairing, Korean History, NaNoWriMo 2020, Older Woman/Younger Man, Shamanism, Surreal, remix fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27529987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quagmireisadora/pseuds/quagmireisadora
Summary: They glue a paper doll onto a bamboo stick and sayDon’t come, don’t comeThey throw your clothes into the fire and sayDon’t come, don’t comeThat’s why you’re footless, winglessYet all you do is fly(Kim Hyesoon)
Relationships: Kim Gwiboon/Lee Eunsook, Kim Kibum | Key/Lee Eunsook
Series: To Live [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969093
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [imagine a knife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796194) by [watername](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watername/pseuds/watername). 



> For Rica chan. 絶対変わらないように生きましょう。

_From the moment she opens her eyes, she knows she is in a temple. She knows its age, knows to give the wood of its beams and rafters a name. She can recite its dimensions and point to every critical junction in the centuries-old structure. She knows it drifts aimlessly on a lake—no pause for entry, no means of escape. This temple, this place, is known to her like she built it with her own two hands._

_Perhaps she did._

_When she turns her head to a side she finds incense burning nearby, on a plate loaded with golden persimmons. No god presides over the offering. No shrine is present to accept. She returns her gaze to the lotus-filled ceiling._

_“Tell me a story,” she asks the sweetened air around her. An answering cascade of red silk covers her face._

* * *

They watch her passing by like she’s floating a few feet off the ground. Eunsook doesn’t consider herself exceptional by any means. She is the product of the same social framework as them all. The difficulties that wore out their hands cultivate scabs on her palms too. But she hasn’t allowed her wounds to fester. She made her ambition into a roll of bandages wrapped tightly over the webs of her fingers; their aspirations were culled by each winter passing through these streets. She doesn’t think they are beneath her for their choices. Despite the fact that she got out of this dead-end neighbourhood while they remain, she doesn’t deem her achievements to be any better than theirs. Maybe that’s why they don’t seem to resent her. At least, not to her face.

She bows her head in answer to each cheery greeting as another winter follows in her footsteps.

The idea of a homecoming is filled with excitement, spurred by nostalgia for the best parts of her childhood. The act of returning to her parents' home is anything but. Pushing through the familiar rusty gate to step into a courtyard, the smell of perilla leaves floats out to welcome her. She can almost imagine her mother under a dim October sun, sorting through all the cabbages and cucumbers and radishes destined to be made into kimchi. But first, she preserves the perilla leaves, coating them in red pepper paste before she packs them up to send northward to her only daughter. The rest is shipped away to relatives across the country. They may be a family of butchers but they’re best known for her mother’s benevolence.

“Oh, you’re here? Aigoo, why are you dressed like that? Someone will think you’re here for a funeral service. So much _black_!”

Eunsook waves and holds out a package for her mother.

“What’s this?” she’s asked.

“Dry pasta. And some French sauces. But I changed the recipe a little bit,” she replies. “Try them. Tell me what you think.”

“OK, OK, but really…” her mother takes in her appearance with a defeated expression. Even in her late fifties she’s a robust and agile woman with a thousand things to say in the space of a minute. Her hands are never still and neither is her face. It makes Eunsook wonder what kind of person she would've been in her youth. As a little girl, she was always told how much she takes after her mother— _you have the same eyes,_ people would say. _The same eyes, the same nose, the same forehead. But you’re nothing alike!_ For many years she’d never understood how two people could be both, similar and not. But with time she’s come to realise that even if her body may have come from this woman’s womb, her mind is completely of her own making.

“Ah, never mind, come in and clean yourself, he’s already here.”

“Who’s already here?” Eunsook frowns as she follows indoors.

“He’s a little younger, but his parents are very nice people, and he even lives in Seoul, just like you! Good job too, expecting a promotion soon, his mother says. I think you’ll like him—”

“Eomma,” Eunsook stops short with one shoe off and the other still holding on to her toes. “I told you, I don’t want to—”

“At least _meet_ the boy,” she’s coaxed, her mother’s soft and pudgy hand attempting to pull her indoors. “He's already here, what do you want me to say to him—?!”

“Tell him to go away! I don't know!” Eunsook stays put. A shallow pool of dread begins to gain depth inside her stomach. “Why did you do this without asking me in the first place—?!”

Her mother looks horrified. “Tell him to go away, she says. What will he think of our family?”

“I don't care what he thinks. Have you ever cared about what I think?!” Eunsook hisses, and immediately the pressure around her wrist eases until it falls away. The struggle has been put on pause. They stand in the entrance of their house, two women separated by years but connected by generations of the same blood and fury. In that moment, as Eunsook glares and her mother glares back, she thinks they are exactly the same.

“Fine,” she’s told. “Be that way. You want him to leave? Go tell him yourself.”

“Eomma, that’s not fair—”

“Life is not fair,” is her mother’s reply to her protests. She stalks away in the direction of the kitchen.

Eunsook eyes the door to the guest room at the front of the house and wishes she could teleport herself back to her quiet apartment in Seoul. The idea of a homecoming is filled with excitement. The act of returning to her parents' home is anything but. She must contend with unachievable expectations and unwanted responsibilities thrust upon her like burdens, to be carried whenever she’s back for a visit. There is pride for her successes, and even some trumpeting to the neighbours on her father’s part. Yet paramount to it all is the fact that she is past thirty and still alone. Unmarried. Unclaimed. A woman could rule the entire world, but she is afforded an incomplete recognition without a man to hold her.

Gathering a sigh within herself, she releases it slowly as she changes into house slippers and claps her way towards the guest room.

The man jumps in surprise when the doors slide open. “Ah,” he blinks at her and bows from his place on the floor. “Hello.” A full cup of tea steams in front of him, and a large plate of fruits is untouched on the low table. He is wearing a collared shirt with all the buttons done up. Next to him on the floor sits a dark suit jacket. He too looks like he’s at someone’s funeral. _A match made in heaven,_ Eunsook grouses to herself.

The sound of his gulp is loud enough for her to catch from across the room. “Hello,” she bows back and closes the door before making her way over to sit across from him. “Sorry, I wasn't given a name.”

“Ah, right,” he fumbles through the pockets of his jacket for a while, soon presenting a business card with both hands. It’s a simple white rectangle with a logo on one corner and a name on another. “Kim Kibum from Fritz Hansen,” the man introduces himself. “Pleased to meet you.”

A confused Eunsook looks up at him. “Do you… always give women your card like this?”

Some hesitation clouds the man’s features. “Should I… not?”

She scoffs. “Only if you’re selling them overpriced European furniture.”

“Oh, I don’t—I mean,” the man tries to explain. “That is. Of course, it would be nice if someone were to find our store through me but. I don’t work in sales.”

“You don’t,” she raises an eyebrow and belatedly accepts the card. It’s thick, like expensive craft paper. A man may not look like anything out of the ordinary but his business card decides how refined he is. Eunsook studies it for a few more silent minutes then places it aside, returning her attention to their guest. “So what do you do, then?”

“I… work in design.”

“You design furniture?”

“Oh, no, they delegate that abroad. No. I uhh…” the man shifts, clears his throat, fidgets like he wants to get out of this room as badly as her. “I provide consultancy services to our customers.”

“You tell them what sofa would look best with their drapes,” she concludes his answer. The man’s expression tells her he doesn’t like how reductive she is about his job, perhaps because he considers himself an important person with an important role in the world. Most men are like that. And when she offers neither an apology nor a softening in her obdurate exterior, he seems to shrink back behind his own protective shield. Bleak sunlight streams in through the screen doors behind him, bathing him in a silhouette as dark as his eyes. He speaks volumes with his face, she realises, just like her mother. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why he’s been offered so much of their hospitality.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I don’t save lives or build bridges. But I like to think what I do makes people happy,” he purses his lips for a moment. “I’m sure Eunsook ssi feels the same way?”

“Me?” she snorts. “Oh, no. I don’t work for other people’s happiness. Only my own.” A sense of superiority fills her with that utterance. She has nothing to prove to him, or to any other man who shows the faintest interest in her life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but when he does his gravelly tone is resigned. “So should I leave now,” he mumbles. “Or is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“What. Aren’t you going to ask **me** anything? Like, what my hobbies are, or if I want children?” Eunsook shrugs and continues in a taunting voice. “There’s nothing you want to know about me?”

“Why would I,” he demands in a low voice. “If the other person doesn’t even want to talk?”

Eunsook sighs. He must feel insulted, and understandably so. She won’t deny that her primary aim in such meetings is to ensure she scares the men away, so they’d never try to speak to her again. She won’t deny that she feels a hint of satisfaction when they retreat from their interactions like intimidated little boys. But the triumph she feels is always short-lived. Some hours later, when she’s eating dinner at a silent table, her guilt will press down on her shoulders. Regardless of her views on marriage, no one deserves to be denigrated like this.

He gathers his things and stands, actions careful and measured as if he doesn’t want to make a sound. As if he’s worried that any sound he does make will offend her. It’s sad to see a grown young man behave so feebly. Eunsook doesn’t stand up to show him out.

When he’s at the door he stops. “You know,” he begins and turns to look at her. There is a tiny smile on his lips, and the angle suddenly makes her notice the cut on his left eyebrow. It is the only thing about him that undermines his otherwise prim and proper appearance. “I used to be like that. I used to think. If I reject someone first, they won’t ever have a chance to reject me,” he nods. “I get why someone would think like that. But see,” he sighs. “There’s a problem with that attitude. If I reject everyone I know, someday… I’ll be left with no one to accept.”

And with that, the man named Kim Kibum gives a slight bow before walking out of Eunsook’s family home.

* * *

It’s not that her parents are unreasonable and old-fashioned country folk. They explain their actions with steady rationality. “We’re not going to be around forever,” they say when she’s cooking a large meal for them a few days later. “You need a family of your own, or you’ll have to grow old all by yourself. Who will look after you then? Who will care for you?”

She wants to remind them that they didn’t raise her so she could care for them in their twilight years, but she knows that will lead the conversation outside the bounds of civility. So she continues to listen in silence.

“And what was wrong with this one? That he earns less than you? That he doesn’t own a house and car like you?” her father asks from the dining table. He’s using the same tone he used to when explaining math problems to her. “Sookie. You need to give people a chance. It doesn’t matter what situation it is, you have to look at the good in someone before you judge them. Imagine how you would feel in their position.”

“That’s what I said to her the last time!” her mother chimes in. There is nothing wrong with what they’re elucidating to her, except there is everything wrong with why. It is every parent’s wish for their child to live a happy life, and Eunsook supposes her own parents are no different in this. So how does she explain to them that she is already happy? That her life is already complete, without the addition of another person. She has no reason to divide her life or time with someone else when she can have all of it to herself; to the things she likes to do. Being alone gives her unparalleled peace and she isn’t willing to change that. But the concept of being self-contained is so alien to them that anything she says will only be met by incredulous dismissals.

“Listen,” her mother stands next to her as she stirs a pot of stew. “Call him back. Talk to him. Have a proper conversation before you decide. I told you, they’re a very good family!” she tries to convince with a happy smile. “When your harabeoji left the army he took us to live in Daegu for a few years. I know his parents well. And!” she smiles. “He’s the only son, so you’ll get all the attention of the in-laws. They’ll be very good to you, I’m sure of it!”

“Eomma, please…” Eunsook sighs tiredly. “Let me think about it, OK?”

“What’s there to think about—?!”

“Yeobo. Give her some time.”

“She’s already had so much time! Look, she’s getting older by the minute!”

“Eomma!”

“Yes! This is how it always is! You two father and daughter always like to side with each other.”

“Yeobo…”

Eunsook switches off the stove and promptly leaves the room, slinking out to the back of the house where a small vegetable patch sits largely bare under glazed roofing. A few heads of cauliflower and two white yams poke through the dirt, asking for her attention. In the new year this little patch will be covered in green leafy carrots and fluffy burdock stems. Soon after, the air will grow zesty with clementines and lemons and oranges. Each month, the earth sprouts with new gifts. Each month she receives a new child of love and labour from this little garden, packed in a tidy parcel. Growing up, Eunsook doesn’t remember there having ever been a shortage of food. She never believed that they were a family of means. No one in this neighbourhood, or several others around it, was ever under the disillusion that their industriousness would one day lead to a life in mansions. But equally, the threat of poverty never loomed in their sights. Even when the meat shop had to be closed early some nights, her father wouldn’t once appear troubled by waning finances or an uncertain future.

She wasn’t raised like a princess, but she supposes she has had a better childhood than most women could boast of. Does this mean she owes it to her parents to indulge in all their wishes? Does it mean that she must pay them back for raising her, feeding her, keeping her safe all her life? Does it mean that every child ever born to a happy family is ordained to forever live in the shadow of such a heavy debt?

“Sookie,” her father approaches. “Come, eat with us.”

“I’m not hungry,” she mumbles and pushes past him to her bedroom. He calls after her but she shuts the door and draws the curtains across her windows before slumping onto her narrow, lumpy childhood bed. Dark humid squares of ancient study planners still remain on the walls, unmoved since her school years. They house pieces of her past within them like static time machines. She closes her eyes to the sight of them and lets go of a long breath.

When her phone rings, she falls onto her back before answering it. “Oh, Minjunggie,” she smiles at the woman on her screen.

“Eonnie, eonnie, eonnie~” the other sings, wiggling for her camera. “It’s my turn to wish you~”

Eunsook grins. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Happy birthday, eonnie~” Minjung sings, blowing a cheeky kiss and winking as she arranges her arm in a cute pose. When she giggles and covers her mouth, the action is shy like she’s suddenly self-aware. In Eunsook’s experience, soju and Minjung do not go well together.

Even so, she giggles along. “Are you with someone?”

The camera pans to reveal the others sitting around a skillet loaded with galbi. They wave and make hearts at her, yelling out their congratulations and other silly phrases. There is laughter and confusion until Minjung directs the phone to herself again. “Is eonnie gone for much longer?” she pouts.

“Why? Is Chef being mean to you again?”

“Mm,” the other nods. “He said I don’t sharpen the knives well and it gets in the way. Is that true, eonnie?”

“Hmm, why don’t we find out when I’m back?” Eunsook offers. “You like sushi, right? We’ll test out the santoku, then.”

“You’ll make sushi for us?”

“No,” Eunsook giggles. “I’ll make sushi for **you**.”

“Uwa, eonnie is so jjang!” an excited Minjung bounces and shakes around for a while before her phone appears to clatter onto the floor. Eunsook hears an alarmed squeal and watches long fingers fumble with the device. Minjung’s pout eventually returns to the screen. “Eonnie!” she whines. “I dropped you!”

Eunsook snorts. “Listen. Don’t stay out too late. It’s cold. And make sure you get home safely, OK? Ask one of the others to take you back.”

Minjung nods. “Aye-aye, sir!” she shoots a comical salute, and then the call ends. The ensuing silence in Eunsook’s room makes her wish she hadn’t made this trip home afterall. But some family traditions are important, she tells herself. Some things are not for her to change.

* * *

_Just before the greenroom door slams shut, she catches the tail end of loud upbeat music in the hall outside. Its rhythm booms through the walls and sends a heavy reverberation dancing under her feet. She’d thought the concert had already ended but it seems like filming is still going on._

_A thick sobbing cough wrenches her gut. She suddenly notices the woman kneeling on the ground, right in the middle of the room. Her body is bound in shimmering clothes and her legs are stuck with outrageous heels. Her hair is the color of pomegranates, her skin is as pale as the moon. She is slumped with her back turned, but anyone can tell she is crying. Her shoulders are quaking, her nose is sniffling. When she raises a hand to push back her messy hair there is a clump of mascara stuck between her thumb and forefinger._

_“A-are you OK?” Eunsook asks in concern._

_The face that turns to her is not human. Dark lipstick is smeared down its chin, trails of eyeliner streak from its watery gaze. The imprint of a hand is burned like a brand on one cheek. More tears dribble at the sight of Eunsook, more shudders go through the slender shoulders. More sobs rack the other’s delicate frame before she sags forward in a loud wail._

_An alarmed Eunsook rushes and kneels in front of the woman, taking careful hold of her shoulders. “It’s OK,” she assures with the first words that come to her mind. She doesn’t know what direction they’ve arrived from and why, but they’ve made home in her mouth and the only way to be rid of them is to speak her consolations out loud. “You’re safe now, it’s OK.”_

_Light reflects off the other’s sequined dress and makes a hundred patterns on the skin surrounding it, leaving the woman pock-marked with illumination. “Once…” she begins in a grating voice, coughing harshly before continuing. “Once upon a time I swallowed. I swallowed my vengeance whole.” The declaration halts while the woman shakes her head and swipes under her nose. “It—it slipped down my throat and settled in my stomach. And there it lives. Even now. Even today. I will not let go of it. I will not let go.”_

_A cold fear gnaws at Eunsook. “What?”_

_“I will hold on to every drop!” she’s yelled at, and then the woman coughs again. Candle-shaped fingers fix a drooping sleeve. Deep red tresses are slowly peeled off to reveal they are nothing more than a wig. Beneath them hides a mass of untidy copper curls restrained in a bun. “I will hold on. And when it is time, I will throw it back up so it—so it stains the hands of those who sullied me.” She gives a reassuring nod like she has finished speaking a promise. To herself or to someone else, it is unclear. What is clear is the obvious trauma in her black eyes. The stamp of fingers on her face is repeated across her throat and around her wrists._

_“I...” Eunsook shakes her head. “I don’t—”_

_In a sudden fit of rage, the woman takes hold of Eunsook’s face. “Listen to me. Listen!” she insists from behind grit teeth. “Once upon a time. I was full of hate! Do you understand? I was full of—” When she hacks for a third time, her breath is raspy until she’s patted on the back. She weeps again, folding her legs out to a side and smearing the remainder of her face away with the back of shuddering hands._

_“I… I understand,” Eunsook says, cautiously gathering the woman to herself. A scent of tarts and wine wafts through the connection, potent in its headiness. The other feels soft in their embrace. She feels like she is made of oily dough. Her grip has the strength of a drowning man when it clings to Eunsook by her clothes. “It’s OK. I have you now. I’ve got you. You’re OK.”_

_“You have me now,” the woman whispers in agreement before plunging a dagger into Eunsook’s back._

* * *

“You look like you haven’t had any sleep,” her mother’s hand is cool against her forehead. “Why did you skip dinner like that? You’ll fall sick.” Her voice isn’t heavy with reprimand, concern floats on its murky morning surface. Alongside it is the sound of frying omelette and tiny potato pancakes.

“Have some rice, you’ll feel better.”

With every mouthful, Eunsook feels blood rush to her chapped lips. Outside, the sun is shining bright and beautiful. It doesn’t look or feel like December. When the ahjumma from next door comes over with a tray of _injeolmi_ and red ginseng, she complains about the heat. In the street cutting through the neighbourhood, the laughter of children is loud as if it were the summer holidays. It should leave her feeling cheery to end her visit on such a dazzling note, and yet Eunsook is uneasy.

“Maybe you should postpone until after the new year?” her father suggests when he takes his turn to touch her forehead.

She shakes her head. “Christmas rush. It’s always busy around this time of the year.”

“You can’t work if you’re sick anyway?”

“I’m fine, appa.”

“I’ll make some tea for you before you go,” her mother fusses. “Don’t take the bus. Appa can drop you to the station.”

“I’m going to be OK,” she insists, but the uneasiness is a tangible lump inside her. She doesn’t know who placed it there, or how long it will persist. But she wants it gone from her at once. She wants to be in her own apartment at once. Maybe taking the train is a good idea after all.

On the way into town, Eunsook’s father drives at a deliberate pace, keeping in the slow lane and letting most of the traffic pass. She can sense he wants to say something to her but doesn’t know where to start. His words yearn to make their shapes known to the air but he reigns them in like the owner of a wild horse. A throat is cleared, a stereo dial is changed, and then all of downtown Gwangmyeong waits with bated breath to hear what he has to say.

“What I mean is…” he finally begins, and someone breaks his sentence with a honk. He speeds forward and drives past the large Costco before turning into the railway station drop-off. There are very few cars to be seen here, which seems to relieve him.

“So,” he tries again. “Like I was saying. Your eomma and I… we want the best for you. And if this guy doesn’t seem like he’s worth your time, then we’ll accept that and move on. But...” he nods slowly. “Sookie. You should give him a fair chance. Talk to him again when you have the time. OK?”

She gives him a non-committal grunt.

He seems satisfied with just that. “I’ll leave the rest to you,” he holds out his hand and gives her a firm rattling shake, an old custom between them that always made her laugh as a little girl. She allows him a tiny smile.

“Bye appa,” she waves.

Despite the fuss, in a few days she has nearly forgotten all about their exchange. Christmas is a time for couples to cram into the restaurant and order steak after steak cooked in a thousand different ways: well-done to medium-rare to still-bleeding-blue. In the days leading up to the end of the season their kitchen is filled with slabs of cold meat and a busy rustle of dried rosemary leaves. Eunsook keeps a bottle of ice nearby, waiting for it to melt to a drinkable form as temperatures in the windowless room rise despite constant ventilation. The rest of the team aren’t faring any better either. They take turns to haul out a bag of potatoes from the cold store or slice off another block of cafe de Paris butter. Even Minjung, who is usually a powerhouse, is struggling to keep up with the dishwasher and deep fryer.

“Should I get eonnie some more ice?” she offers when she passes by with an armful of frozen vegetables.

“No, bring me some wine for this instead. I want a…” Eunsook struggles to remember the labels on the bottles.

“Cabernet?” Minjung finishes, and then grins with pride when she gets a surprised look in response. “I’ll find a Yalumba. It’ll go well with the meat.”

“She’s learning fast!” Chef calls out from behind them as he walks over to inspect the bearnaise bubbling in a pot. “But she’s talkative as always.”

“Sorry, Chef!” Minjung squeaks and runs off to complete her errands.

The dining room door opens to Subin walking in with a list in her hands. “Two more steaks well-done for table five and… you guys won’t believe this. Someone finally ordered the gnocchi.”

A groan goes up nearby. “Cough it!” someone else claps their hands and says. There are very few ways to entertain oneself in a job as intensive as this, and bets are one of them. It isn’t that their gnocchi isn’t popular with diners, but it certainly isn’t what their restaurant is best known for. Still, once in a while the odd request offers them a little amusement on hectic nights like this one.

Eunsook grins as her colleagues argue about the ridiculous odds or negotiate the price of the bet. “I’ll take it,” she momentarily raises her hand and gets to work. “Minjunggie? Bring out some artichoke when you’re getting the wine, will you?”

“What’s that again?” the other asks.

“Don’t use your phone to **google** that!” Chef’s annoyed voice tells the girl. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

 _Food is important,_ Eunsook’s halmeoni had always said as she’d seasoned spinach or stir-fried zucchini. She remembers standing in the old woman’s kitchen and watching her work like she had four pairs of arms sprouting from her sides. _Food is like love,_ she’d explain to a teenaged Eunsook. _You think you can live without it, but not for long. And then? The more you have, the more you starve for both. So remember! Eat and love in moderation._

Years later, when she’d first decided she wanted to be a chef, Eunsook had thought back to her afternoons in halmeoni’s constantly bustling kitchen. Tonight is like that. Tonight she feeds the starving patrons outside the swinging doors, who wait for food and love to arrive into their lives on a prettily arranged plate.

She presents the gnocchi with care, pouring on a pot of burnt butter before sprinkling a generous helping of parmesan and herbs. On a separate plate she places several sticks of fried asparagus, throwing on some roasted peanuts for accompaniment.

“Five is done!” she announces a short fifteen minutes later, placing the dishes on the serving pass for someone to take out to the dining hall. Subin is prompt. She dashes in, carefully places the offerings onto a trolley and wheels them away.

With a sigh, Eunsook lifts her water bottle to her mouth and swirls her bearnaise before removing it from heat. Inadvertently her eyes go to a large wall clock in the corner. Another fifteen minutes, then they close the kitchen and head home for the night.

“You worked hard, eonnie,” Minjung approaches after some time, holding out a slice of bread slathered in onion jam. “You must be tired?” her hand grips the joint of Eunsook’s neck and shoulder, giving the place a firm squeeze. The action feels good, it feels relaxing. Eunsook wonders if Minjung ever worked in a massage parlour before applying here. In Chef’s words, she’s an absolute rookie, and so she must learn the ropes before she can climb over the wall. She’s a good student, too—they make her clean and wash and do everything around the kitchen. Everything besides cooking. And she does it all without complaint. She does it diligently. But that isn’t a mark of her innate talent. To be a chef requires more than hard work, and it’s possible that Minjung may never graduate to that. If she is aware of this, she doesn’t let it show in her demeanour. Her smile is ever-present, her manner is always sweet.

“You did well too,” Eunsook says, biting into the bread. Hours of flipping and frying and cutting make her stomach give a cavernous growl. They both giggle at the sound as they lean their backs against a wall and watch the second hand tick.

“Sous-chef Lee?” Subin returns, eyes traversing the width of the kitchen and eventually landing on the two of them. “It’s table five. They want to see you.”

Eunsook shares a look with Chef. There is an invisible barrier across the swinging doors. Those who cook and those who eat do not usually cross it. They are like enemies on either side of a front, and Subin is their messenger of peace. It is generally intolerable for either side to mingle with the other unless it is a special situation. Like right now. When she’s given an approving nod, Eunsook takes the cloth off her head and passes a hand over herself, raising her eyebrows at Subin.

“You look fine,” the other nods and leads her out.

The three occupants of table five all look up at her in unison. Two of them smile wide, their plates of steak wiped clean and their glasses of Cabernet drained empty. She bows her head to them a little as they begin to shower her with compliments. The third person stares at her in the same disbelief she feels but does not show. This person is Kim Kibum from Fritz Hansen.

* * *

Minjung returns indoors with a strange look in her eyes. A light powdering of snow sits in her hair. “Eonnie,” she points in the direction of the garbage disposal area. “Just now…there’s a man asking about you.”

She doesn’t need to say anything else. Eunsook knows who she means. With a nod, she looks for her puffer jacket in the dark mass of everyone else’s clothes and dons it before venturing out into the cold night. The sour smell of waste assails her when she pushes the door open, forcing a hand to cover her nose. In the distance, she notices a dark figure with an orange dot of light in its face. Eunsook makes her way over and stops a few feet away from the other.

When she’s noticed, the cigarette is hastily put out and an apology mumbled about it. Kibum clears his throat, touches his palm to a creased forehead. He bows in her direction with an air of stress and discomfort.

Eunsook bows back coldly. “What a coincidence,” she mumbles.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately rushes to speak over her. “I wanted to... Uhm. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“You’re… sorry?” Eunsook confirms. “What for?”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Kibum replies with a persuading nod. “I… I really didn’t. If I had, I would never have suggested we come here.”

She raises an eyebrow at him. If this is his way of insulting her, then she supposes they are now even. _One all_ , she calls the tally in her mind. But something about the way he fidgets with his hands before stuffing them in his pockets… something about him tells her he is not so haughty as to stretch so far, just to even a score. She thinks he is genuine in his apology. She believes her mother wouldn’t have given out a detail like this, no matter how much she liked the guy.

“You were here with friends?” she asks instead.

“Eh? Ah… no,” he blinks. “They’re just. Clients.”

“Dinner with clients?” she smirks. “That’s a fancy life.”

“They…” he shrugs. “They wanted to thank me for. For our services. We don’t accept personal gifts, so. I suggested dinner at a good restaurant.”

“Thanks,” Eunsook accepts the hidden compliment.

“Yeah,” he lets out a foggy exhale. “Anyway. I’m. I’m sorry again and. I’ll try not to appear in front of you anymore.” He gives another bow and begins walking out of the alley.

Eunsook watches his back as it scuttles towards the road, then yells out just before the man is out of sight. “Hey!”

Kibum turns around, his face half-lit by a yellow streetlight. He doesn’t say anything back. She tries to make out what he’s thinking in that moment, tries to decipher if he has any hope or any apprehension for what is to come. For what she is about to say. She wonders if he is expecting another affront from her. And then she wonders if she even has an affront to cause him right then. To her surprise, she discovers that she doesn’t.

“Do you know a good tea house around here?”

Eunsook elects to listen rather than talk this time around. Kibum must’ve made the same decision. The pot issues a plume of steam between them but their cups remain empty. Other tables are populated by talkative young couples and groups of school kids. Their banter is loud. Their words reflect juvenility. It’s past ten in the night but the place is as busy as ever. In her college years, she remembers coming out to jaunts like this with friends she no longer meets. Her work has changed her. She now talks like she cooks—the ingredients of her sentences are measured carefully on the scale of her tongue. If there is too much or too little, she throws the contents out and starts again.

Eventually, she reaches for the teapot and holds a palm out for his cup.

“Ah, thank you,” he seems to lift off his chair by a few inches, both hands touching his cup as if this is a formal tea ceremony and Eunsook is a venerable elder who has seen fit to bestow him with some time and advice. She contemplates his overly-careful conduct. Is he like this with every woman he meets? Is he like this on every date? Do his inhibitions ever melt? Are they like chocolate, needing warmth in order to deliquesce?

Taking in a long breath, she constructs her first dish of words. “Eomma said. She knew your parents when they were young.”

Kibum sips his tea and nods. “I… I’ve heard something similar.”

“I don’t remember us ever meeting,” she adds. “Growing up, I mean.”

He nods again, eyes on the tablecloth. Nothing else is affixed to their fledgling conversation from his end. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to marry him, she jokingly tells herself. He’ll be quiet as a mouse, almost like he doesn’t exist. Maybe this is why he needs his parents’ help to find himself a girl. Because he is too plastic and mechanical. It’s not just his conversations that are unstimulating, even his silences tell her nothing.

“Appa suggested I should give you a chance,” she blurts before she can stop herself. “What do you think?”

The light shifts in his eyes at that. She is unexpectedly struck by how inky his stare is, how indecipherably deep. Is that the true depth of his mind? Or just an illusion to snare an oblivious victim? Eunsook waits for a long time to hear his reply. In fact, the hush stretches so long between them she thinks he must’ve forgotten what she’d said last.

“I… I don’t know what to think,” he frowns.

“You must think something,” she shrugs “It’s kind of impossible not to.”

He opens his mouth again but no sound reaches her. He isn’t stupid, this much is certain. It must be something else that keeps him from speaking his mind. It has to be a more significant reason. Whatever it is, it’s powerful enough to encumber him to the point of prolonged wordlessness. Eunsook finds herself bubbling with curiosity to find out.

“Have you been in relationships before?” she tries instead.

“Y-yes, of course, but—”

“And none of them worked out?”

“Sorry, I don’t see why this is important—?”

“Was it your fault, then? Is there something wrong with you?”

He pushes his chair back, suddenly looking towards the exit. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can talk about this—”

“—because it makes you uncomfortable,” she offers, and then leans back in her chair. “So you don’t like talking about your past. There’s a start.” She drinks from her cup. “What about your future, then?”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I can’t… I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because—!” he begins with disbelief. “Because this isn’t a conversation. It’s an interrogation. I feel like I’m...I’m being attacked. Is this what you meant by giving me a chance?” he scoffs. “Because if it is, I’m not sure I want it.” He stands like he is about to leave her behind, then sighs and rubs at his tired eyes.

“It’s obvious you’ve already made up your mind. Whether you give me a chance or not isn’t going to change anything. So please,” he sighs, the sound as heated and watery as the tea they share. “Let’s end this here and move on.”

On the train ride home Eunsook writes a message to her mother, telling her it’s a no from her. In truth, her pride is writing the message, but she won’t admit that to herself so openly. His rejection isn’t rooted in any fault of her own. He is driven by other, unknown and personal reasons that he will not share. And that shifts the blame on him. He is the problem, not her. Never her.

* * *

_She searches for her pair of scissors, but they’re nowhere to be seen. Directing a frown at the head in front of her, she wills the fake locks sitting in a half-styled mess to fix themselves. Bright clips and rolled buns taunt her for her inabilities. The timer is ticking loudly in her head. If she doesn’t do something soon she’s going to be disqualified._

_Foot bouncing under the table, she looks from one side to the other, searching for someone who can help. There is no one else in the hall. She is alone. This test is meant for only her. With a desperate curse, she picks up a few more rollers and thinks to stuff them into the wig. But when she turns back to her mannequin head, it is gone. In its place stands a tall woman. She is clad in a long leather jacket that falls to her knees, its color a deep crimson mimicking blood. A long finger lowers circular sunglasses down a sharp nose and studies Eunsook, giving her a thorough once-over._

_“Once upon a time,” the woman begins in a nasal drawl. “A blade was a blade.” Heeled feet clop around the table. The woman glides, her shape floating through the air until they are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, right next to one another. Even without the ridiculous shoes there would likely be a difference of several inches in their heights. And yet there is nothing awkward or unsightly about this strange woman. She is graceful, like a dancer. She holds herself with nobility and poise._

_“No matter how big or small. No matter how sharp or blunt. No matter how rusted or righteous. A blade was a blade,” she nods once to engrave her lesson into Eunsook’s mind. “And those who questioned it were pierced by its edge nevertheless. So the question is: am I a blade?” she asks, offering her palm. A small razor sits in its centre, the sharp steel ends gleaming._

_“Or am I the hand that cuts?”_

_A hesitant shake of the head answers. “I… I can’t style hair with that—” Eunsook protests._

_“A blade is a blade,” the woman hisses. “This was how it was and is. This is how it will always be. There is no fighting it. I cannot deceive myself. So,” she tilts her head. “Will I cut, or will I be cut?”_

_The hand remains steady, waiting. It holds a promise, a certainty. It proferrs a vision. Eunsook raises her hand to place it flat against the blade, and just before their skins meet the thin plane of steel glints and dances with a momentary rainbow glow. She hesitates for a split second but by then it’s too late. It’s far too late. The woman locks their fingers together in a sedulous bind._

_Instantly, the room fills with other voices, other women. One, five, a hundred of them materialize out of thin air and exchange looks or words with each other. Some borrow hair clips, some swap combs or spray bottles. Some laugh, some comfort, some contemplate, and some make easy snips with their own pairs of scissors. The windows are thrown open. The ceiling fans come alive in an electrical whir. The lights are switched on and the timer disappears, replaced by one with a longer, more forgiving countdown. Eunsook is not alone anymore. She is no longer a solitary contestant in this examination. A sigh of relief leaves her._

_The woman beside her grins. Their clasped fingers leak a liquid made from a thousand colors. “Let us begin—”_

* * *

Her apron is tied fast on her back. Eunsook checks the date of the package before ripping it open. The block of salmon is fresh. She can’t wait to slice into it. On the workbench sit a bottle of vinegar, two identical ramekins filled with sugar and salt, a perfectly ripened avocado, and a bowl of cooked rice. They’re in the kitchen an hour early, hoping to keep out of everyone else’s way when prep starts for tonight.

Minjung takes out several sheets of toasted seaweed for her to make into rolls. “Eonnie looks tired,” she comments. “Sorry I’m making you do this…”

“It’s not you,” she’s reassured. “Just… not sleeping so great recently.”

“Oh. Is it your mattress, then? I heard the wrong kind of mattress can actually hurt your back. So scary!”

“No,” Eunsook giggles. “My bed is fine but I’m… I’ve been having some really weird dreams recently.”

“Hmm?” the other smiles. “What kind of dreams?”

She shrugs. “Can’t remember when I wake up.” Minjung pouts in disappointment, which only makes Eunsook laugh again. “Anyway, let’s see how you sharpen. Show me.”

The whetstone is soaking in a box full of cold water. Minjung fishes it out and places it reverently in the middle of a cloth. “Eonnie is right-handed so… I’ll do this side first,” she taps the flat of the blade and positions it diagonally, inside facing downward. Pressing with her other hand, she draws the knife along the length of the stone before releasing the pressure and sliding it back to the top again.

“Hold on,” Eunsook touches the other’s shoulder. “Your technique is good, but let’s change this a little bit, OK?” she nods. “The knife is flat on the stone right now, yeah?”

“Hmm…”

“How about lifting it up from the back? Just a little bit?” Eunsook directs with her hand. “This way the edge of the blade will be flat on the stone. Do you want to try that?”

Minjung does, sliding the blade over and over until she reaches the handle. She repeats this a few times and looks up for approval.

“Now lets try the outside,” Eunsook encourages. Minjung tilts the knife edge just as high as the previous go before she is stopped. “So remember what you said,” she’s instructed. “I’m right-handed. Which means I don’t need the outside as steep as the inside. Keep the tilt lower this time, and then we’ll look at it.”

The other is guarded in her actions but she slowly grows more fluid. She learns fast, that’s always been a good thing about Minjung. And even if it takes her longer than the others to do something, she does not give up. It’s an admirable quality. Eunsook feels proud watching the other learn and grow as time passes.

When she's done, Eunsook swipes her thumb back and forth along the side of the blade, from heel to tip. A nod of approval is given. “OK, I can feel the burr. Now let’s use the polishing stone.”

“Polishing stone?” Minjung asks. “I… I don’t know what that is…?”

“Hmm,” Eunsook nods. “Maybe that’s what’s missing? Look at this,” she pulls a larger whetstone to herself from a nearby shelf and sprinkles it with water, imitating Minjung’s actions for each side of the knife. “The first time, you fold the edge onto itself. The second time is when you’re sharpening it. See?” She holds the blade out and turns her wrist to watch the ceiling light reflected at them. “Like a mirror,” she explains. “Give it a try.”

“Wah… eonnie knows so much,” Minjung exclaims. “Is this why you’re such a good chef? Because you can do everything?”

“This is… just a small part of it,” Eunsook explains. “I think the most important thing for a chef is having a good appetite. And you already do,” she jokes. “We’re like knives, you know? We all come into the kitchen with a blade and a handle. But everything we learn here sharpens us,” she gestures around them. “This is our whetstone. So if we hold ourselves at the right angle, focus on the spots that need the most work, then we start getting better and better.”

Minjung’s face is filled with wonder for a moment until it breaks into a wide grin. “Eonnie is such a good teacher!” she praises. Leaning in she hisses a conspiratorial, “much better than Chef!”

Eunsook giggles. “Go on then, I’m hungry.”

At dinner time the room fills with heat once again. The steak is popular all year round, including tonight, but calls for it are intermingled with orders for other things. Like her mother’s garden, the earth yields a variety of gifts to their kitchen throughout the year. They serve braised pork shanks with polenta in March. They include cod in puttanesca sauce on the April menu. From September to February, they order oysters for baking and broiling and even serving raw. One of the most important things taught in culinary school is when to eat what—when are crabs heavy with eggs, when are lobsters hungriest, when is a young duck ready to be tabled. For years, Eunsook’s notes would be filled with enthusiastically penned recipes for each new thing she’d encounter. For years she’d concocted more interesting ways to present her meats, until she’d discovered where the meats came from.

The first time she’d held a foie gras in her hand, all she could think of was the blinded goose it must’ve belonged to. Overlapping the vision came another: of a woman in the middle of a field with not a thread for cover, a million ravenous eyes appraising her worth.

“You’re a chef,” she’d been reprimanded by her teachers. “You don’t have the luxury to be queasy. That’s an insult to the animal lying in front of you.” Eunsook hadn’t understood the answer then, just as she doesn’t now. But her womanhood has helped her gradually cultivate and master the art of indifference. Now when she’s feeding a room full of hungry patrons, her inhibitions stay at home. They are replaced by her keen knife.

“You’ll think I’m joking but get this,” Subin walks in on new year's eve with a giggle in her voice. “We have our second order of gnocchi in a week.”

Shocked and amused splutters are heard around the kitchen. _Are you actually serious?_ they demand. _It’s not April yet, you can’t play pranks like this, you know,_ they chide. Subin doesn’t joke and she doesn’t play pranks. They may smile politely at their patrons on the other side of the doors, but the kitchen is a place requiring absolute seriousness. There is no tolerance for silly games when it comes to something so time-sensitive. Subin understands that. She wouldn’t try anything funny like that on purpose.

“Sous-chef Lee,” she looks at Eunsook. “They specially requested you make it.”

Eunsook frowns but accepts. “Sure.”

Like all their other pasta dishes, they prepare the gnocchi well in advance. She spends a full morning kneading the potato paste with ricotta. When she rolls each cube of dough across the tines of her fork, she does so with utmost care to make uniform conches out of the lot. Sometimes Minjung helps her bake them, sometimes Eunsook tries a semolina mix instead. And when the bag is left unused at the end of the week she makes a snack out of it for the staff, experimenting with the sauce and noting down all the comments she receives. Tonight, she gives their guest her personal favorite—tossing the pasta in tomato sauce and parmesan, melting mozzarella onto the mixture. She garnishes the steaming dish with basil before leaving it on the pass.

Several minutes into her break, Subin returns with a smile. “He likes this one better,” she nods.

“They’ve been here before?” Eunsook raises her eyebrows.

“I’m almost sure it's the same guy who ordered it the last time. He looks so familiar too… like an obscure movie star.”

Eunsook grits her jaw. “He’s still here?”

Subin blinks, surprised. “Y-yeah, he should be… why?”

Wordlessly pushing past, Eunsook exits the swinging doors even as she’s asked to stop, and surveys the dining hall. When she spots the lone man in a corner she advances on him with a simmering rage. _How dare he_ , she seethes. _How dare he, after all that?_

Kibum doesn’t notice her until she’s towering over him, and by then it’s too late for him to get away.

“ **This** is what you meant by moving on?!” she hisses.

A restaurant is a place where people come to relax and be with their loved ones. To their patrons, this is a place of exchange: good food and wine in return for a sum of money and respect. But that respect is given from a distance. There is no room in it for anything else to be traded, no words or actions or even looks. It is a sterile transaction, and Chef prefers to keep it that way. This sort of behavior could put a black mark against Eunsook’s name.

But Kibum doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion for that reason. He looks appropriately unnerved as he tries to defend himself. “I… I only came to eat, I promise—!” he insists.

“So you’ll eat what I cook but you won’t talk to me. Great! You’re perfect husband material,” she ridicules, throwing him one last scowl before retreating to the kitchen.

Later, when he asks for her again from the garbage disposal area, she wants to send Minjung back out there with a message consisting of several choice words. But this isn’t something she can involve anyone else in. Taking in a long breath that holds only a modicum of patience, she stomps out into the snow in nothing but her work clothes.

“What,” she barks at the man.

“Listen, I’m sorry, OK?!” he is quick to launch into his protest. “I came because I like the food. I didn’t come to see you!”

“More bullshit,” Eunsook spits.

“Look, trust me, alright?! I'm not interested!”

“Why should I trust you then?”

Kibum hesitates. “... OK, don’t. But I mean it! I only came here tonight because I was hungry and I liked the food the last time.”

She glares at him in the dimness of the alleyway before inching closer, finger pointing at his chest. “I’m telling you right now. Don’t fuck with me, or next time I **will** call the police,” Eunsook warns, then turns on her heel and makes to head back inside.

“Please…” she hears him call out. It’s a pitiful sound, one fit for an imploring child or a whimpering pup. “I… I really am sorry.”

The snow starts to dampen on her head as she closes her eyes and breathes to calm herself down.

* * *

“What’s your favorite dish to cook,” he asks from across the table.

They’re at a _pojangmacha_. The smell of frying squid and the sound of utensils is all around them. On the table are two half-finished bowls of ramyun and two empty bottles of soju. A week ago Eunsook would’ve scoffed at the mere suggestion of going out like this with a suitor named Kim Kibum from Fritz Hansen, but here they are, trying to drink each other under the table. From the glaze of confusion in the man’s eyes, she reckons she’s winning.

“Cannoli,” she answers without a hint of reluctance.

“... like the Godfather?” he raises a broken eyebrow in clear amusement.

“Yeah,” she empties her glass and pours him a drink when it’s her turn to ask a question. They’ve been going back and forth like this for over an hour now. “What made you get into retail?”

“Money,” he shrugs and hisses when he’s emptied his shot. “I studied interior design for three years before I realised I wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing. It’s hard to get a job in this economy, let alone one that pays enough to survive,” he shakes his head, picking up the bottle they share. “So. I decided to find something else.”

“Making me laugh…” Eunsook scoffs. “You said you do your job because it makes people happy!”

“Everyone says that,” Kibum chuckles. “Because everyone hopes it’s true. Anyway,” he fumbles for her glass. “It’s my go. Why do you hate men so much?”

“I do not—” she starts to object when he adamantly pushes her glass towards her, spilling some of the clear alcohol on the table. She huffs, picks it up, downs it quickly before slamming the glass back between them. “I don’t hate men,” she repeats. “I hate the idea of a man in a position of authority he hasn’t done anything to earn.”

“... like a husband,” Kibum offers, then slowly nods. “That’s understandable. I don't think being a husband gives you. Entitlement. Over anything.”

She shoots him a mildly surprised look.

“We aren't all scum, you know,” he chuckles.

“So why did you agree to come see me?” she asks. The bottle is empty and it’s time to go home. In exchange for leaving with Kibum, she promised she would take an early shift to receive a shipment of oysters scheduled to arrive the next day. It has taken her an hour to work herself up to this question. Maybe the other senses that too when he leans back in his chair to study her through squinting eyes.

“You want the truth?”

“Why would I want anything else?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Because it’ll only make you feel like shit,” he warns with a shake of his head. She continues to wait for his answer, and he finally gives it after a long and thoughtful sigh. “When they told me about you, they said... They made you out to be this old, bitter, ugly woman who lives a miserable life all by herself. I decided to come out of pity but.” He gestures between them. “Obviously none of it was true.”

It’s her turn to raise an amused brow at him. “Really.”

Kibum blinks. “You don’t believe me,” he murmurs, then rubs his face again. “I came there, expecting someone who was desperate for a man. I really wanted it to be true, too. Maybe because… because it would’ve made me feel good about myself. To be wanted, to be. I don’t know, to be desired?” he shrugs. There’s a trace of indignation in the action. “But when I saw you…” he blinks up at her. “When you came into the room, you were nothing like I’d imagined. You were… you were confident and. And arrogant,” he scowls. “You acted like you were above me. And… and even if that’s just your nature,” he massages a temple. "Even if I earned better and dressed smarter and looked. I don’t know, looked like an idol, maybe. Even then it wouldn’t matter,” he gulps at her. “You seemed to already have everything you wanted.”

Eunsook stares at him from across the table. “Is that why you left?”

“No,” he shakes his head and scoffs. “No, I left cause you made me feel bad about myself.” He turns away from her. “That stayed with me. And when you said. That you’ll give me a chance. I was scared,” he frowns at the gap in the entrance of the tent. “Because I thought. I thought that can’t be right. Why would this woman want someone like me?”

It’s true. Eunsook doesn’t want someone like him. But he clearly needs a pick-me-up just then. She clears her throat and arranges the bottles in a straight line between them. They’re at the end of their game, at the end of their conversation. There is nothing else to be said, nothing more to be revealed. The bitterness of soju will linger for a few more hours but the alacrity of his responses is what she will remember the night by.

“I want to give you a chance,” she says, moving one bottle to the side. “Not because of my parents. Not because of yours either. I _want_ to do this.” She tilts her head at his disbelieving expression. “Would you be OK with that?”

“You won’t like me,” Kibum worries his lip. “And if that happened… I—I won’t like myself.”

“Do you like yourself right now?” she asks, and again he's pushing his chair back in a refusal to answer. She raises a hand in the air to calm him. “If I tell you I don’t like myself either, what would you say?” she urges. “What would you tell me if you knew that?”

He blinks, showing some sympathy and some doubt. “I… I would say no one really likes themselves. No one rational, at least.”

She moves the second bottle aside. “What would you do differently to make this relationship work?”

He gulps, the sound as loud as it had been the first time they’d met. Kibum wets his lips nervously, eyeing the last bottle standing in the way of his answer. He draws in a breath, looking at Eunsook’s expectant face, then slowly releases his guard. “I… I wouldn’t expect us to last forever.” His face flushes at the end of his sentence, the color not easily distinguishable from his drunk rubescence.

Eunsook gives a slow and sympathetic nod. “OK, then,” she moves the last bottle aside, leaving nothing but air between them.

* * *

_The mass of people moves before she has a moment to question its direction. They push her and pull her and carry her in a surge of angry fists. They wear suits, they wear ties. They sport headbands and high-waisted jeans. Everywhere she turns, mops of dark hair covers foreheads and falls over glasses. She can’t separate from them. She can’t move away to safety. Their rebellion is now her rebellion too._

_“We rise as one!” they yell around her. “We rise as one!”_

_The sinking feeling inside her suddenly explodes when a bomb goes off nearby. People scream and scramble. Their surge turns into a hurricane, yanking her every which way until she feels she’s going to twist to her death. An elbow crashes into her stomach. A fist closes over her hair. She tumbles, losing her balance and greeting hard asphalt with her back. Feet scamper all over her. In the distance, riot police are marching in unison, headed straight for her. She knows this is the end. She knows this stampede will not cease until it has crushed the last breath from her lungs, and yet—_

_Something pulls her up by her shirt before tugging her along in an unknown direction. “Run!” she’s ordered and she doesn’t think before obeying. Her feet work before her mind does, and then she’s one of the crowd again._

_The sneakers slapping the road next to her are bright red. She gives a moment’s attention to their owner and finds a woman racing gleefully towards a branching road. When their gazes meet, midnight eyes laugh at Eunsook. She doesn’t know what to give them in return._

_Another blast makes them duck their heads as they’re passing shopfront after shuttered shopfront. Smoke is starting to creep towards them from the rear and sides. She doesn’t know what it can do; she doesn’t want to find out. But every step is a battle. Every footfall is colored with fear and danger. A residual cry of “we rise as one!” thunders behind them. Eunsook whimpers, reaching out to link hands with the other woman._

_When they eventually arrive at a half-drawn shutter, she’s pulled again to a stumbling halt. They slip under the lip of the door before the shopkeeper ahjussi rolls it all the way down and slides a sturdy bolt in place. Turning to them, he gives a reassuring nod._

_More shouts and feet race past them as a pair of arms envelopes Eunsook like a warm shield. Her pulse is a drum beat in her temples. “Once upon a time, a resistance was born from my womb,” the woman begins to whisper against her ear. “They try to make me forget, but it was born and some of it still lives inside me. Like bullets left behind by the enemy. Here,” she pats Eunsook’s waist. “Do you feel it?”_

_“Wh-what?”_

_“I won’t find the scars, but they exist. They exist, well-hidden. I must remember this when I smile. I must remember it well, when I’m happiest.” The woman cranes back, their noses and breaths sliding against each other. Long fingers climb up Eunsook’s sides to arrive at her jaw. “There is a battlecry stuck in my throat. There is a war I yearn to wage with my tongue. The weapons in my words can defeat empires. When I am losing hope, I must remember this. Do you see?”_

_Loudspeakers crackle to life outside and announce a curfew, passing a sentence on all student protestors._

_Eunsook swallows a mouthful of questions. They taste like nothing compared to the fire stoked in her gut. She doesn’t nod her acceptance, but her hands lock around the other’s frame in response. “We rise as one,” she murmurs._

_A smile dances on bow lips. “We rise as one,” the woman concurs._


	2. Chapter 2

_From the moment she opens her eyes, she knows she is in a temple. She knows where it is in the world, knows how it came to be. She can name every footstep that has walked on its floors, every fingertip that has trailed along its walls. She knows that it is empty—knows that it will remain so until she decides to reopen it to visiting hands and legs. This temple, this place, is sacred to her._

_But she can't recall why._

_When she sits up and leaves her blankets behind, the rush of water outside entices her. She stands, pads over for a closer look, skin sticky with anticipation. Even before she pulls the doors apart, her eyes are searching, seeking, hunting._

_The sound of bells alerts her of approaching footsteps. “Where are you going?” a voice calls from behind her. She turns around to yell at the interloper who—_

* * *

“You want _samgyetang_?” she turns a sceptical face towards the man. “In this weather?”

The new year has brought a cursory warmth with it. Snow no longer lines the pavements and sleet no longer threatens her every footstep. She spends a few hours every week trying out new recipes as February breezes into March. But a chill still hangs in the air, forcing her to don layer upon dark layer to hide herself from the cold.

“I was told... it’s one of your favourites,” Kibum admits haltingly.

“You’ve been talking to my mother?” Eunsook demands, immediately erecting a heavy adamantine barrier between them. She doesn’t completely trust him yet, even if they’ve been meeting almost every week. At first she’d thought of all the excuses she could conjure to keep a safe distance. But she’d soon run out of energy, and eventually the excuses took on an immature tone. So now they eat and drink and walk and talk about whatever comes to their minds. And although she is unwilling to let him in completely, she knows there’s no malice in him. Rather, he doesn’t seem capable of it.

The man raises his hands in defence. “ _Months_ ago,” he clarifies. “She told me months ago, when I came to see you.”

Eunsook surveys him for a long minute. If she were to equate him to food, he would be a sea urchin. He is prickly. He is hard to crack, hard to break open and savour. Like her, he keeps himself hidden behind a difficult exterior. The thought of trying to reach in for a look is daunting. It could end in carnage. She could hurt herself or hurt him in the process. And when she finally does gain access to his soft core, the sweetness he may offer would likely be quick to melt and disappear. So she continues to store him in a blanket of cold distance.

She wonders how she must seem to him. What does he think she resembles? Vinegar, perhaps. Or chilli peppers that sting at the slightest touch.

“What else were you told?” she quizzes. “About me.”

Kibum opens his mouth in what may have been a protest or an honest response—it is destined to never leave his lips when a restaurant worker approaches them wearing a wide grin.

“Welcome!” the young girl bows and hands them a flyer each. “Please, please, come in. We’re offering our special _haemuljeon_ this week. Made from freshly caught seafood and fried to a crispy perfection!” she proclaims with a glint in her fervent gaze. “We’re open till midnight, six nights a week! Please, do come in and enjoy the flavours of the sea!”

Kibum raises his eyebrows in a silent eagerness.

Answering with an exasperated sigh, Eunsook gestures for him to lead the way.

She follows him into the courtyard. Most restaurants in this sector are old _hanoks_ converted into fashionable stomping grounds for young couples. A small portion of her hopes that the sunken centre and wooden rafters still hold stories of families that flourished and perished within these brick walls. But everything in this building could well be made of synthetic sentimentality and she wouldn’t know better. So much of the present is plastic and fake, why would the past be any different?

Taking a seat on a deck, she begins removing her shoes. Another young girl promptly appears before her, offering a pair of slippers. Her hands feel like they've been dipped in ice for hours. Her nails are bright red and chipping when she helps slide the slippers onto Eunsook’s feet, an act overly zealous for a restaurant worker.

Before she can be thanked she’s disappearing in a flurry of copper hair and violet apron. “Hey! You!” Eunsook calls out, frowning after the figure. She is cognizant of a formidable feeling of déjà vu, wanting to stalk after the girl for a reason she can’t easily justify.

“Should we go in?” Kibum prompts, and when she looks up at him he’s standing too close. She gasps, takes a surprised step backwards, nearly stumbling.

His hands are quick. They reach out and steady her by her elbows. His grip is tight. He radiates an unfamiliar warmth from his fingers that seems to reach deep into her bones. “Are you alright?” he frowns. She makes out a second scar on his face, fainter, traveling downwards on his cheek. Like a teardrop waiting to be wiped dry. He blinks a few times, disconcertingly near. But again, he doesn't seem like he would want to hurt her.

“Y-yes… sorry.” Brushing his touch and his kindness away, she grumbles a few words of gratitude.

The place is clean and tidy. It is crowded, which is a good sign. The flooring is polished hardwood. The tables are simple yet elegant. The scent of ginseng and kelp thickens the air. As they sit cross-legged on plump cushions, Eunsook appreciates the atmosphere of the place. Lively, loud, full of character. When she’d been hired as a junior chef six years ago, one of her earliest assignments required her to spy on the competition. Week after week she’d dress up in her fanciest clothes, try out the specials, make note of the decorations, go through the list of wines, and think of ways to improve all of it. Then she’d go home and prepare diligent reports for Chef to pour over the next day. She likes to believe that a fraction of their current success can be attributed to her good judgement. Perhaps this place has someone like that too.

“I was wondering...” Kibum calls attention to himself. “Since you’ve already cooked for me. Twice,” his ears turn a little red. “I… I wanted to return the favour. Some day.”

“You know how to cook?” she shows open surprise at this. “What can you make?”

He shifts around in his place. “I… I probably can’t hold a candle to you but,” he gives a slow nod. “Vietnamese noodle soup. I think I can make a decent pho.”

From a very young age, she has felt conflicted about households with two cooks. Her mother was always the one to feed the family, preparing snacks and quick meals for unforeseen visitors. In school, Eunsook made a habit of eating packed lunches by herself behind the sports building for fear of them being stolen by her classmates. Her closest friends were constantly coming over to stay for dinner. Their neighbours would stop by often, just so they could enjoy some candied sweet potatoes over a game of cards. Even her grandmother, who was the best cook she’d ever known, would be sure to shower compliments on her daughter-in-law. The kitchen was always Lee eomoni’s domain. But Eunsook’s father never strayed too far from it either. She remembers his attempts at making porridge when nursing them through sickness. She remembers how he’d neglect the store and stay home, steaming pears and grinding peppercorns to make _baesuk_.

Having watched them for years, she understands that relationships are essentially built on need. Her mother needed her father’s strength and reliability. Her father needed her mother’s affable nature.

What could anyone need from someone like Eunsook? What does she have to offer besides her cooking skills? She studies the way Kibum pours them both a drink and narrates their order to someone from the waitstaff. He’s younger, her mother had said, but they mustn’t be too far in age. He has a stable job. He seems to have friends who text him often. He has parents who care about him enough to set him up with a Korean girl, rather than seeking a marriage broker in some foreign country. She can’t tell what he could possibly need from her. But she knows for certain that she herself must find someone who can’t cook at all. She needs someone who will love every morsel she creates. She needs a man who can barely hold a knife, much less understand its sharpness.

“We can talk about other things too, you know?” she snorts, raising her cup towards him. “My life isn’t just about food.”

He looks sheepish when he clinks their cups together.

As a man, Kibum isn’t terribly self-absorbed. He doesn’t constantly try to assert his manliness. But every time they meet he seems hellbent on wanting to prove himself her equal in drinking. Maybe this is his way of trying to remain in her good books. Maybe he’s hoping to impress her. It can be amusing to watch his obstinacy increase in direct proportion to his inebriation.

“My parents were asking about you,” he mentions after a while, when their food arrives in a pair of steaming bowls. Eunsook tests the rice with her spoon. It’s soft. She leans in and breathes a lungful of the broth. Strong and soothing. She catches a hint of jujube and can’t help the smile that grows on her face. The scent is relaxing enough for her to let her guard down.

Across the table, Kibum is watching her intently. “It’ll be nice if… if you would come see them for dinner,” he suggests.

Eunsook blinks. She finds herself in a giving mood. “Yeah, why not,” she agrees. “Are they planning to visit you?”

“Yes. I’ve actually been inviting them for a while but they keep refusing. They’ll say things like... my apartment is too small, or I live too far from anything interesting,” he chuckles lightly. “It was only when I told them about you that they said yes.”

“They must really want this thing to work out,” she comments as she scoops some chicken into her mouth. It’s not the best _samgyetang_ she’s ever had, but the flavour melts on her tongue and has her wishing she were good at traditional dishes like this. She swallows a few more enthusiastic spoonfuls, sighing with satisfaction. It feels like months since she last had such a fulfilling meal.

“Well,” Kibum stalls before dipping his own spoon into his bowl. “They’d probably never expected someone as good as you to be interested in me, so...” He takes a bite of chicken and immediately follows it with a gulp of his drink. With his mouth still chewing, he twists in place and calls for another bottle, even though they’ve barely finished the first one. Maybe he’s trying to hide the colour filling his face. Maybe he’s trying to keep her from following up his declaration with questions. Regardless, his embarrassment is obvious.

“They think I’m good, do they?” she playfully prods.

He looks up at her and gulps down his food, a small smile growing on his face. It must be a sign of the barbed urchin giving up; opening its little mouth for her. She muses if he knows how she’ll have to split his shell in half before she can drink from him. She asks herself if he is imagining her vinegar replaced with honey, only to be proven wrong.

* * *

“I’m going to put you down for the International Food Festival in Taipei next month,” Chef informs her one morning.

This declaration is not surprising. Every year, the restaurant funds a short trip for four of its staff to attend food shows in other parts of the region. It’s a good way to learn about culinary trends abroad. In all her time working for Chef, Eunsook has been to three such shows. The experiences haven’t been entirely pointless. She has gleaned new ways of preparing mallard meat, perfected a semifreddo recipe with raspberries, and learnt about frozen Tetsuya eggs. The time off of work doesn’t hurt either.

Eunsook wipes her hands on her apron. “Just me?”

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, humming thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking of having the ventilation systems fixed so money is going to be a bit tight this year,” he explains. “I’ll allow you to take one more. But it’ll have to be a shorter trip. Who do you want?”

“Minjung,” she answers without a second’s thought.

Chef tuts. “I know you have a soft spot for her but I can tell that kid isn’t really going to stick around much longer,” he shakes his head. “You could take Jihoon, he makes a great rotisseur. Got a bright future ahead of him, that one. Or Yejun—we’ve never had such a talented junior, he’s even better than you were when you started.” He gestures in the direction of the kitchen, looking a little incredulous. “There are six promising young chefs for you to choose from! Try and reconsider.”

“Seven,” Eunsook corrects him. “Chef, the whole point of these events is to learn. And Minjung is **desperate** to learn!” she insists. “Did you know? She borrows all these massive old cookbooks from the library and tries out the hardest dishes in them, all by herself? I’ve tasted some of them, they don’t turn out all that bad. She just needs some guidance, that’s all.”

“And you’re willing to give your time to do that for her,” Chef asks.

“I am,” she remains firm. “That girl can be so much better.”

He sighs tiredly. “OK, look, you’re obviously going to fight me on this so… should I even try?”

“Nope!” Eunsook grins, but she's aware of the risk she's taking with this. “I’ll make sure she’s on her best behaviour,” she promises as an after-thought, hoping to placate the situation.

“Eonnie… chose me?” Minjung falters when she’s given the news during their joint break. She doesn’t look all that thrilled about the announcement. If anything, she seems guilty. For the better half of a year, there’s been a long-standing bet among the other chefs over how much longer she will last. Eunsook may be the sous chef but she knows there are some secrets she isn’t privy to, just like she knows she wasn’t supposed to find out about this bet. Subin is a reliable source. She makes for an excellent mole: not only does she get along swimmingly with all the others, she also never lets on the fact that Eunsook is using her to monitor the kitchen.

The bet is a despicable thing, but she supposes it’s not all that astonishing. Minjung has recently been making more mistakes than usual. She’s been told off for buying ground cinnamon powder instead of whole sticks. She’s been scolded for mixing up ricotta with mascarpone. Last week, Yejun the junior chef lost his temper when she took a photo of his calzone to post on her SNS.

Just this morning, she mistook fettuccine for tagliatelle.

Nevertheless, Eunsook picked her out of the lot. If she were to take part in the bet, she would put her money on Minjung excelling beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. There is something about the way she doggedly chases after her ambitions, something in the way she hones herself day after day despite her failures, that transcends pity to become almost inspirational. Often the first one in and the last one out, Minjung pushes herself by doing more reading more learning more.

“Eonnie is always so kind to me,” she murmurs to her drink bottle. “I… I don’t know if I deserve it.”

“Yah, how can you say that? Of course you deserve it!” Eunsook rebukes lightly. “You work harder than any of us. Sometimes you even put me to shame, you know!” she teases, nudging the other. “If I’m not careful, you’ll replace me in no time!”

Minjung doesn’t respond. A few minutes into her silence, she sniffles.

“Hey…” Eunsook touches her shoulder, which becomes the trigger to break the floodgates open. “Hey, hey, come on,” she hushes and draws them into a hug. Minjung shudders and sobs in her hold. The contact trips a maternal instinct deep inside Eunsook. Suddenly, she is furiously protective of the other. Chef may call it her soft spot and the others may accuse her of playing favourites. Even so, she harbours an unrivalled affection for the girl, not just as a mentor but also as a friend. Because if Kibum is made of spines and Eunsook is filled with acid, then Minjung is saffron. She is delicate and must be handled with care, but everything she touches is coloured in her cheerful glow. Not everyone truly appreciates her subtle sweetness. Not everyone acknowledges her contagious happiness. After all, she is not as vibrant or bold as other chefs. But with time and patience, she can be just as effective.

“Where did my brave Minjunggie go, hmm?” Eunsook rubs circles on the other’s back. “Silly girl… you should be happy! You’re going on a special work trip! Isn’t that exciting?”

Minjung releases a watery giggle against her shoulder. The hug tightens for a moment before growing slack. “Thank you, eonnie,” the girl whispers. “Thank you. Always.”

“You can thank me by helping me pick a dress for next week,” Eunsook chuckles.

“W-what’s next week?”

“I’m… meeting someone.”

Minjung moves back and blinks with teary lashes. “A hot date?” she asks. She's shushed and admonished for getting the wrong idea. Her lips eventually stretch into a grin. “Oooh~ eonnie’s going on a hot date!” she does a silly wiggle in her place.

“Wah… this ungrateful kid,” Eunsook wags her finger between them. “Here I am feeling all sentimental, and you’re spreading ashes on cooked rice,” she scoffs for show. “Remind me never to be nice to you again… aigoo! Unbelievable!”

Minjung laughs and coils an arm around her shoulders. “So tell me more!” she inquires in an indiscreet whisper. “Who is it? Is it someone handsome? Is it someone I know? How old are they? What do they do?” she fires off before covering her mouth in an impish gasp. “Omo, omo... by any chance, is it that guy who kept ordering the gnocchi?”

“This joker,” Eunsook warns, sending Minjung into peals of laughter.

* * *

_There are two beds in the cell, one on each wall between the locked door and the barred window. Outside, the sound of gunfire is an ominous dirge. Another comrade fallen. Another fighter culled for daring to fight, daring to question, daring to exist._

_“My name is Kim Gwiboon, and I am not the enemy.”_

_She looks towards the other and blinks in question. Of course they are the enemy. They have always been the enemy. To be weak, to be soft and gentle, to give love and kindness away so easily, to be a woman. What else does it mean if not dissension with a world so set on destroying itself? “My name is Kim Gwiboon, and I am not the enemy,” the lie is repeated and this time Eunsook shakes her head._

_“That’s not right,” she refuses._

_Gwiboon raises her eyebrows, the cut on one side looking like it will start bleeding again. “What should I say then?” she rejoins. She’s still wearing the clothes she was captured in: a matching skirt and top, now so shabby it looks like rags strung together on cheap red thread. Her wings are torn, her feet are broken. There is no escape from this imprisonment, they will ensure it until her very last breath. But she is bruised and battered and struggling to sit upright, and still she looks so full of life. So ready to take up arms and resume the fight at the first opportunity._

_“What would you rather hear me say?”_

_There are no mirrors in the room, but Eunsook knows she is in a similar state. “The truth,” she demands._

_A chuckle rings in the dry air of the room like a death knell. Gwiboon shakes her head with fondness. “Once upon a time, I was a martyr,” she recites. “I didn’t want to be... I wanted to live. But they chose me anyway. What could I say?” she laughs again. “They covered my eyes, covered my mouth, kept me separated from the truth. I could have anything else in the world, all the riches, all the gold,” her breath sounds laborious. “But not the truth. And that hurt more than their fists. That made me bleed more than any weapon they could’ve used to silence me forever.” She smiles benevolently, reaching her arm out across the cell._

_“But I still resisted.”_

_Eunsook rises and crosses over, slowly bringing their bodies together. When their skins are connected, she finds an old memory of them in her head. An afternoon spent at Changdeokgung, strolling through the park and swinging their arms between them. Men in distinguished suits nod their heads, women in regal hairstyles smile wide. Their secret is in plain sight and no one prods or presses for more. The memory plays all the way until the reel runs out in her mind, as if spooling on an old camera, grainy and saturated with colour that isn’t quite convincing._

_Gwiboon’s head is so light in her hold, her neck is so delicate. She is unbearably easy to break. And she will break—if not in a few days, then in a few months. It does not matter if she is a communist, or an imperialist, or a foreign spy, or loyal to the nation. It does not matter what she is. She will be broken. That is her fate._

_“I’m sorry,” Eunsook begs for forgiveness. “I didn’t... I didn’t want you to suffer.” She presses the other’s face to her stomach, stroking her hair. “I tried to protect you. I tried to stop them. But I didn’t do enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she repeats. She can’t tell if the words exonerate her. She can’t differentiate between her innocence and her guilt._

_The thin shiv doesn’t make the slightest sound when it pierces Gwiboon’s soft unresisting flesh._

* * *

She jolts off her pillow in shock. _Just another nightmare,_ she sighs after a moment and relaxes back into the soft sheets.

The alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but it’s already bright and sunny outside. Her head is heavy. Her body is aching. She groans and rolls onto her side, a wet discomfort blooming between her legs. She tries to ignore it and hopes for a few more minutes of rest. Then, in a panic that spikes abruptly, she throws off her blankets and sits up to find a small flower of blood on the sheets.

“Fuck,” she touches her head. She’s two weeks early. The rest of her day is going to be occluded by misery and agony if she doesn't do anything about it soon.

By the time she has bathed and eaten and changed the sheets, it’s already ten. She needs to hurry. Kibum has arranged for them to meet over lunch, booking a table at an expensive-sounding restaurant. It isn’t too far from where she lives, but she wants to look her best.

“Eonnie has so many black clothes!” Minjung had echoed her mother when she’d come over to rifle through Eunsook’s wardrobe. It’s a conscious decision. Black is effortless. It doesn’t need to be stylish or trendy or cool. It doesn’t require time or planning. At the start of her day she shrugs on whatever outfit her hand touches first. At the end, she does much the same. It may be lazy and it may seem unrefined. She doesn’t care. She's not a model, after all. She's a chef. Colour belongs on a plate of food, she insists. The human body has no need for decorations.

Minjung had picked out three black dresses that all require some amount of armpit shaving or special bra wearing. It’s annoying to have to work so hard for something as simple as lunch. She spreads her choices out on her bed and chews over each one. One is too short to wear in the daytime and is immediately disqualified. One’s midriff is covered in sequins and might seem too tacky for a meeting with parents. She puts it back on a hanger. The last dress is made of lace and could be quite elegant if she wore heels and long earrings with it. She takes a photo of it and sends it to her mother.

“It’s not bad,” Lee eomoni appraises. “But it might be a bit over the top?”

Eunsook makes a tired sound. “I don’t have anything else!”

Her mother tuts. “Listen to you. You’re worse than you were in school!” With a sigh she tries a hand at comfort. “Well, if you wore a nice cardigan over it…?”

“No, it’ll make me look too old.”

“Aigoo, this girl is so difficult!”

In a fit of annoyance, Eunsook stuffs everything back into her closet without any of her usual care for order. A dark cascade of clothes and scarves pours out onto the floor. While her mother nags her over the phone, she wearily tries to put everything back in its place. This lunch is shaping up to be more trouble than it’s worth. She dumps her clothes back in and is nearly ready to cancel the whole thing when she notices something bright peeking through the colourless mass. She plucks it out, holding it up to the light.

It’s a crimson dress. Eunsook flips it around in her hold, trying to recollect when she bought something as outrageous as this. “Eomma,” she stops her mother's tirade. “What do you think of this?” She takes a photo of the thing.

“Ohh! And you were saying you don’t have anything else? This is perfect! Wear your hair up with it,” she instructs. “Ah! And you should wear a necklace. Something nice.”

Fifteen minutes later, Eunsook is staring at her own reflection with a little disbelief. She doesn’t look like herself. She doesn’t think she **is** herself. 

The dress sits off her shoulders, a string of pearls complimenting it around her neck. It must be a play of light but the fabric fills her with colour too, as if the crimson is leaching into her skin. _Red is a wonderful colour, isn’t it?_ She recalls her halmeoni asking as she skilfully peeled open a pomegranate. The seeds had fallen out of the pod in a small shower of rubies, and a teenaged Eunsook had peered at them in curiosity. _On the other side of the world, there is a bird with beautiful red wings. When it wants to fall in love, it does a flashy dance,_ she’d been told in a laughing tone. _But sometimes the dance can bring danger,_ her halmeoni whispered. _Predators! You should always be careful with red, little one._

As she studies the waistband flaring down to her knees in folds of silk and the sleeves ending in elegant scallops above her elbows, the dress throws Eunsook's usual caution to the wind. She slowly runs her hands over her front. The whole ensemble is an exact fit. A perfect fit.

“Almost perfect,” she corrects herself, turning her head this way and that before picking up a red lipstick.

On the bus out, several of the other passengers ogle at her. The driver shakes his head and mumbles under his breath. Two young boys in the back snicker and hush comments between them. An old man in a beret twists in his seat to shoot her a toothy grin. Eunsook decides to disregard the world for the rest of the ride. She plugs in her headphones and stares out the window.

The first time she realised how she must look to others was when she was five. Her father would walk her to school while she biked alongside, huffing and puffing as she pedalled over a steep hill. He did it with good intentions. He did it so they could spend more time together. The people they passed would giggle and call her things like _sweet, chubby, a darling_. And perhaps they’d meant it at the time. Perhaps when ahjummas poked the rolls of fat around her waist or pinched her cheeks, she must have seemed like an adorable little girl to them. But as she grew older she knew those same words didn’t apply to her anymore. At fifteen she would often stall on the side of the playing field in ill-fitting pants and an overly-tight shirt. Running was uncomfortable. Skipping rope or getting hit by a dodgeball was embarrassing. Sports of any kind was a pain. As the years went by she changed from being _plump little Eunsookie_ to the girl who needed to lose weight.

“Some girls don’t even grow anything up there!” an old aunty would comment every time she visited for tea and gossip. “Your Sookie should feel lucky about being curvy! Very lucky!” But there is nothing lucky about the stretch marks that line her body like scars. On the few occasions she’s brought men to her bed, they try not to comment on it. They pretend like she’s normal. She can always sense the judgement in their eyes. She can tell she isn’t within the bounds of what anyone considers desirable. She knows she isn't pleasing at all.

And so she no longer tries to please anyone.

When she arrives at the restaurant it’s not yet lunch time. Most of the tables are still empty and waiting to be claimed. She surveys the place for a few seconds before she notices the back of Kibum’s head.

“Hello,” she approaches and bows respectfully to the elderly couple sitting across from him. The three of them gawk at her for a few seconds while she manoeuvres herself into a free seat, suddenly reanimating to shake her hand or compliment her.

“Eunsookie! It’s so good to meet you! You have a lot of your mother’s face,” eomoni reaches across the table and squeezes her fingers. The woman’s palm is soft, if a little wrinkled. Her hold radiates the same warmth as Kibum’s.

“Well, I think she’s far more beautiful than Kyungsook,” aboji debates in a cheery tone.

“Ah… I remember what great friends we used to be.”

“Yes. It was a shame when the family moved away so suddenly. But I’m glad we kept in touch! After all, we got to see you, didn’t we?”

“It’s very nice to finally meet you both,” Eunsook replies. She turns to her side for their son’s comments and finds Kibum is still stunned mute. He’s openly staring at her with awe in his gaze. Like she’s descended from the heavens. It’s a little ridiculous. He must realise she’s only doing this as a favour to both their parents, to quell all their anxieties over this relationship. She wants to snap her fingers in front of his face and tell him to stop being so obsequious about it. In any case, he wouldn’t think so highly of her if he ever saw the rest of her, would he?

“Hello?” she murmurs to him.

“H-hi…” he responds in a stupefied tone.

“You order yet?”

He frowns, gradually emerging from his reverie. “Uhh…” he blinks around the table. “No, we were waiting to ask you. F-for suggestions,” he nods. His parents nod back. They’re all looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak. 

Eunsook tries not to let her discomfort show. Scanning the menu, she recommends a three-course set of bisque, meat terrine and ratatouille, ending with a serving of soufflé each. Kibum’s parents seem impressed by her knowledge of foreign food and drinks. They ask her questions about her training days, they quiz her about her place of work. They say her parents must be proud of her, and go as far as offering to visit her restaurant.

“Eomma…” Kibum says in a slightly abashed tone. “That might be embarrassing for her.”

“It’s fine,” Eunsook corrects him, shooting an encouraging nod to the old couple. “Please. Visit any time. I'd love to cook for you.”

Their meal is largely uneventful. Kibum and his father exchange banter about politics. His mother peppers the conversation with praise for the food or anecdotes from Daegu. Eunsook asks to see the wine selection, ordering them a bottle to share. Her phone constantly buzzes in her lap with positive texts from Minjung and inquisitive ones from her own mother. She ignores them and eats her food in silence.

Towards the end of their afternoon when she excuses herself to the ladies’ room, she isn’t expecting to be followed. Entering the privacy of the lavishly decorated bathrooms, she is surprised to see Kibum's mother behind her in the mirrors.

“Please go ahead,” she motions to the only free cubicle.

The older woman shakes her head and takes Eunsook’s hand instead. “You really are a beautiful young woman, Eunsookie,” she lauds with a mellow smile. It’s the kind of smile only a mother would be able to produce, filled with a balmy pleasantness that cannot be easily replicated. “I can’t believe our Kibummie found someone as lovely as you… he’s not much of a catch himself, is he?” she giggles.

“Eomoni…” Eunsook frowns, covering the clasp of their hands with her own.

“I know,” the other nods. “I should be singing my son’s praises instead of pointing out his flaws. But let me talk to you as a woman,” she requests and purses her lips for a slightly hesitant moment. “You are more successful than him,” she begins and continues despite being persuaded otherwise. “You’ve studied a lot more, you probably earn a lot more. You’re better than him at many things. That… that doesn’t always help a relationship. Men can’t accept something like that so easily.”

She makes an adoring expression and moves closer. “But I know my Kibum,” she assures. “I know that… even if he isn’t so perfect, he’s happy with you. Ever since he met you, he’s been so much more… content,” she smiles. “I don’t know if you will choose him in the end but. I can tell,” she reaches up and caresses Eunsook’s cheek. “He’s already chosen you.”

* * *

Kibum’s father insists on footing the bill. “It was our pleasure,” he chuckles. “Besides, what would I say to Kyungsook if she asked why I made you pay for our food?!” The elderly couple wave at her and Kibum. She bows to them again, and tells them to visit her family when they can.

When it’s time for Eunsook to go home and get ready for work, she decides to walk to her apartment. The weather isn’t so inhospitable for her to ride the bus, and her cramps seem to have faded to a dull throb in her pelvis.

“… may I walk there with you?” Kibum offers, then insists. “I’d like to drop you off, if that’s OK. As a way of thanking you for coming out with us.”

She takes a moment to acquiesce but she eventually does. They walk in silence for a while, strolling along the sidewalks and service lanes. She thinks back to Kim eomoni’s words. She thinks back to her smile and the tangible compassion in her hands. Was it the older woman’s way of trying to win herself a suitable daughter-in-law? Was it a mother’s act of desperation for her loner of a son? Was Eunsook so covetable in those few hours that she had to be secured before she was stolen away by a more capable man? She ponders over her own feelings about the situation, too: does she feel proud to be wanted? Does she feel prized, if Kibum truly likes her as much as his mother claims he does? Does she feel glad that she took her parents’ advice and gave this soft-spoken man another chance?

Or does she feel disgusted to be measured and gauged for the purpose of setting up a stranger’s household?

“Do I make you happy, Kibum ssi?” she asks, hoping to find answers.

He clears his throat, appearing self-conscious. “Uhm… I mean,” he shrugs. “I find your company. Enlightening.”

She gives him a sceptical look.

“N-no, really!” he scrambles. “I like how you can talk about… so much! You know about a lot of things, and you’re good at explaining your views. I really like listening to you,” he contends, then looks alarmed at having let slip something so private.

“I _—_ I mean…”

“It’s OK,” she allows. “You can be honest.”

She walks a few more feet before realising he has stopped. When she turns to look at him, she finds him watching her with… with what? What is that cryptic look on his face? Is it longing? Is it agony? Is it the mien of someone who is going to run away from a confrontation? Or is it a sign of impending confession?

“I… I don’t want you to think of me as. As someone who doesn’t keep his word,” he prefaces.

“Why?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “Because… because I could _—_ ” he worries his lip, looking away into the distance for a moment and letting go of a strange pitiable laugh. “What would you say,” he tries again when he looks back at here. “If I told you that… that I might like you a lot?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Is it the dress?”

Kibum rushes closer. “No… please _—_ ” he demurs.

Eunsook shrugs. “I’d say good for you.”

“... that’s it?” he stops and wavers just in front of her, shaking his head in question. “You won’t say anything back?”

“Do you want me to?”

He drinks in a long breath. “Yes,” he nods after a moment of thought. “Yes. I do. I want you to try and like me too. Just a little is enough.”

“Even if it isn’t forever?” she asks, reminding him of his own words.

He blinks down at her, and at this range his expression is much clearer. He’s begging. He is pleading with her to take him seriously, to appreciate his honesty and receive him with more than her usual amusement. He is imploring her to find something in him worth liking back.

“Nothing is forever,” he murmurs.

She thinks about it for a moment, tracing her eyes over his scars and his sighs. She thinks about his rare dimpled smiles and his long fluid fingers; about his blatant elation and his concealed disappointment. She thinks about him, then nods.

“Kiss me,” Eunsook orders.

Kibum blinks, surprised. “Wh _—_ now?” he looks around at mid-day traffic and other pedestrians. “You want me to kiss you now? Right _here_?!”

“If you really like me it shouldn’t be so hard,” she challenges.

He takes another long pause, vacillation clear on his face. She doesn’t believe he’ll say yes. She assumes he’s a coward, that like most men he speaks before he understands the true weight of his utterances. She assumes he’s going to apologize and retreat before being spurned.

Instead, he reaches down and links their fingers together in a reassuring bind. His touch is sweet. His breath is ardent. “OK...” he softly accepts the challenge. “OK.”

When he rests his mouth against her, she knows. He isn’t a sea urchin after all. He’s a silver-lipped oyster. He may not draw anyone’s attention. He may not be flashy and attractive. He may be the kind of man who disappears in a crowd. But on his tongue is the possibility of a rapture that slowly gathers and expands around itself, shaping unrefined fervor into a small priceless sphere of affection. On his tongue is where several years of built-up expectation reveal a beautiful secret that he carefully passes on to Eunsook. And then she understands exactly how she feels about all this.

He makes her feel special.

* * *

_She walks towards the riverbank and as expected, Gwiboon is there. Her boat rocks on the lapping waves but her footing is as steady as her sable gaze. Her grip is firm on the long oar as she waits, smiling, expecting, drawing Eunsook to herself._

_The Han is like a grey desert. Its dunes sift endlessly with each breath she takes. Seeing its face uncovered by vast bridges, she wonders for the first time how deep it is; how old it is. If she were to swim across it, she wonders if she would survive the downstream force. Perhaps not. Perhaps it would swallow her whole the moment she wavered in her resolve. Perhaps it would make her part of itself, trailing her along for hundreds of miles before spitting her out into the ocean._

_Cutting the river's breadth is a row of thick pillars that seem to reach for the sky. They stand tall and proud but she can tell the water is slicing into them even as she watches. She pulls the shawl on her shoulders closer around herself._

_A long queue of men in trilby hats and women in hanboks is waiting patiently for their turn to step onto the boat, to cross over safely. But Gwiboon does not let them on. She does not give them her assent. They must wait for her, earn it from her._

_They must wait for Eunsook._

_A hand is offered and accepted. She falters only for a moment before a steadying arm circles her waist. She looks up at Gwiboon, her doubts quelled by a comforting nod. Carefully, they seat themselves on a beam each, facing each other. One holds out an oar and another grabs it with some incertitude and some pride. This is not a ferry, she realises. This is a journey they share with each other. A mortal woman wandering through the past and a goddess who lives in every moment of time._

_They push off the bank and immediately the pressure of the stream tries to wash them away. They resist it together. They row with all their might, they return every volley of the river with the belief that they will succeed. That they will find the other side and it will welcome them in arms spread wide. They grunt and sweat and put all their effort into the motion and soon… soon, they are half-way across._

_Concrete trunks and steel branches sprout from the fierce desert. On closer inspection, Eunsook realises the pillars belong to an unfinished Hangang Bridge. The realisation bubbles up in a strange laugh from her chest. Gwiboon looks at her and grins. Her face is so reassuring in that moment, Eunsook is sure letting go of their oars would not matter. They’d stay here. They’d remain suspended in the middle of rushing mercurial minutes and silvery seconds of this timeless river. But she isn’t willing to take that risk. Her hands are unyielding on the length of wood._

_“Once upon a time,” Gwiboon begins as she always does. “I loved you.”_

_Eunsook doesn’t ask for any more. She knows this is all she will be given, and it is enough. She embraces the tiny story, cradling it to her breast as if it has come from her own womb, as if it is built from her own flesh and blood. As if it is the most precious thing in the whole world._

* * *

A restaurant, she thinks on the way to work, has two faces. An ornamental front-of-house that lures gourmets and hungry couples. And an interior where steam and smoke lead a swirling dance above bubbling pots. These two faces may exist in the same milieu, but one does not bleed into the other. They are self-contained.

A similar duality can be found in a person. For example, she smiles to herself, a man who seems unbearably reticent at first could eventually reveal himself to be a hopeless romantic, sending her anonymous bouquets of red roses every week. They live in vases she digs out of the storage room, put on display for the whole world to admire. And yet to everyone else Kibum still has two faces. This does not change. He is one man to his friends and family, and he is another to Eunsook. Over several months he has carefully unwrapped a side of him that she no longer needs to make cautious guesses about. Like in the kitchen, she is sure-footed within the volume of his heart. She grows familiar with his secret doorways and concealed alleys, and in turn he doesn't hinder her eager reconnaissance.

She sends him a text to tell him that yes, she will go away with him on a long trip this weekend before she must fly to Taipei. When he sends her a cute celebratory sticker, she giggles and fishes for the keys to the restaurant.

To her surprise, the door is unlocked. She checks the time: Minjung is in earlier than usual. It must be the excitement of their impending journey or the encouraging words Eunsook makes sure to call out to her every once in a while, but the girl has recently been excelling at the tasks she is given. Over and above her usual duties, she can now easily recite recipes for obscure Italian dishes, some that Chef himself has never come across. She once cooked a perfect osso bucco from scratch, and won many compliments for correctly seasoning squid ink pasta when it was introduced as a plat du jour one evening. Granted, she still makes a few mistakes. But they are dwarfed by her newfound adroitness. Minjung has started to shine a little brighter.

Pushing through the gleaming door to the wind lobby, Eunsook shrugs off her coat and prepares a dozen more happy praises for the other. The words come easily, building up like effervescent waves preparing to pour out the minute she opens her mouth and—

“... it’s big enough for two, you know,” a voice floats out before a short woman comes into view. She’s standing in the middle of the dining hall, her eyes holding an impish glint and her hands holding Minjung’s waist. They sway together on the balls of their feet, one reaching up to affectionately brush back a fringe, the other blushing sweetly. “Your commute would be much shorter. Plus, the view is… _really_ something,” the short woman continues with a grin, eliciting a giggle and a hushing swat to her arm.

Eunsook slowly inches her way in from the lobby, staring at the others. They notice her after a short moment and jump apart, clearing their throats and scratching the backs of their necks. But that moment is enough to tell her everything that swims between their two bodies, its leftovers thick and red like blood rushing from an open wound.

She looks from one to the other for an explanation.

“A-ah…! Eonnie!” Minjung is the first to break their awkward silence. “I wanted to de-ice the cooler shelves and thought I’ll bring help... This is—this is my friend. Junghee.”

“Nice to meet you,” the short woman greets with a shallow bow. The words are polite but the way she speaks makes her sound casual, uninhibited. “I’ve heard a lot about you from this one,” she touches Minjung’s shoulder, rubbing tiny arcs with her thumb. “Please don’t worry, they’re all nice things.” She chuckles when she is swatted at again.

“Ah, what are you saying…!”

“Only the truth,” Junghee’s voice is like chunky syrup, her skin is like burnt toffee. Her hair falls loose down her back in dark golden waves that are obviously styled for a special evening out in town. She’s in a colourful tee-shirt and tight jeans that show off wide hips. Her face is mostly unmade save for the bright lipstick standing out like war paint. She gives off an air of confidence and dignity. On any other occasion Eunsook would’ve curiously wondered what this woman does for a living, what her interests and hobbies are and how she happened to befriend Minjung.

But this isn’t any other occasion. And Junghee is clearly not just a friend.

Eunsook has always prided in her stable approach to every adversity. She dissects her problems with an even-keeled scalpel of rationality, understanding the issue to the best of her abilities before reacting to it. When she faces a crisis for the first time, she labels her emotions towards it. She counts them in her mind one-by-one as she goes down the alphabetically ordered list of _anger, bitterness, confusion, dismay, exhaustion_ … all the way until she finally arrives at _worthlessness_. And when she is done she accepts the problem, accepts her feelings, and moves on. She moves forward with whatever grace she can muster. For many years, Eunsook has been self-satisfied in this approach.

The two women who smile at her across the room expect that grace from her now, but she can’t summon it. She can’t find her rationality no matter how hard she searches.

“Minjung,” she begins in a stern undertone. “Please ask your friend to leave if she isn't a paying customer. It’s nearly dinner time and we don’t entertain just anyone off the street.”

They wordlessly stare at her when she whips past them to the kitchen. She doesn’t care for their shock or confusion. She doesn’t give a shit if they are hurt by her sharpness. Yanking on the strings of her apron and her head scarf, she walks over to her conspicuously sparkling workstation and immediately knows who to thank for it. As she pushes a choleric lump of tears back down her throat, she tells herself she doesn’t care. She just wants to finish her shift and go home.

“S-sorry about that, eonnie,” Minjung mutters when she sneaks in a few minutes later. “I—I know we aren’t allowed to bring outsiders here.” She stalls at the door for a while before moving closer in tentative steps. “I-it won’t happen again. Promise! Please don't tell Chef... please?” she entreats with a show of aegyo, trying to use her cuteness like she always does. It looks pathetic and vile. It looks like she's begging for mercy. Eunsook is disgusted.

“I’ll… I’ll buy you dinner tonight to properly apologise. How about it—?” Minjung smiles and loops their arms together.

“What are you doing?” Eunsook snatches herself away from the other.

Minjung blinks like a startled dog. “Wh-what…?”

“ **What** are you doing?” Eunsook insists. “Tell me. What exactly is it that you do every day in this restaurant? You’re obviously no chef, and you’re too dumb to learn anything I ever teach you, so why are you here? Why are you wasting my time? What is it that you’re trying to achieve?” she rages, then points a warning finger between them. “You know I’ve put my neck on the line for you. I’ve worked very hard to protect you from getting sacked. The least you can do is try not to fuck up. Or is that too much to ask?”

“E-eonnie…”

“And what the hell is this _eonnie_ bullshit?” Eunsook goes on to spit. “Am I your friend?! No. I’m your boss. So get your shit together and act like it,” she glares. “You’re going to call me what everyone else calls me, or you don’t need to talk to me again. Am I clear?”

Minjung watches her through stunned and teary silence.

“Am I clear?” Eunsook yells, making the other flinch and take a fearful step back.

“Y-yes…” Minjung gulps, stuttering a nod and gathering herself before bowing low. “I apologise, sous chef Lee,” she says to the floor. “It won’t happen again.”

They remain like that for a long minute, glowering and groveling. A person, like a restaurant, has two faces. What appears sweet and endearing may turn out to be deceitful. What looks honest and diligent may be a front for perversion. A show of gratitude may be nothing more than that—a show, masking a fraudulent degenerate who has no place in Eunsook’s life, no place in any respectable society.

For over a year Minjung cleverly partitioned her two faces so they’d never meet. Now that they’ve melded into one unsavoury whole, Eunsook wishes she’d never known Minjung at all.

* * *

_A shout erupts in the theatre, bringing the performance to a sudden halt. Her eyes follow the trio of singers as they dither for a moment before echoing the scream and running backstage, mini-skirts aflutter. The band abandons their polished instruments in search of safety. Horrified audience members jumps out of their seats in a wave that grows inwards from the entrance door. Veins of panic spread across the hall. Men in suits and army uniforms race each other to the exit. Women in body-hugging dresses struggle to keep up._

_“She’s crazy!” someone stumbles over an upturned chair._

_“She’s out of her mind!” someone else repeats, climbing onto a table and throwing an ashtray towards the source of everyone’s fright._

_“Who let her in?!” a third voice demands as they try to search for a way out._

_Eunsook calmly follows this hysteria from her own place, eyes turning their attention to what’s causing the disturbance. She expects a monster. She expects to find a beast flailing and thrashing its way through the gathering. But all that awaits her sight is a woman like herself—tangled in the same web and fighting to get out. She is several feet away, and yet Eunsook thinks she is like any other woman in the room._

_Or perhaps she isn’t. Perhaps something wild resides inside her; something not quite human, not quite of this world. Her crimped hair is in a mess. Her cherry red dress is muddied and askew. There is a frenzy in her gaze. There is a madness on her breath._

_There is a knife in her hand. She waves it in broad arcs. She swings her fury back and forth until the crowd begins to recede from around her. She screams and spits and curses and weeps. She lays bare the insanity she is accused of housing. A man tries to restrain her by the waist but she swipes him with her weapon and sends his writhing form to the ground. Another yells to call the police before the deranged lady kills someone. Nothing stops her. Nothing stands in her way. Nothing keeps her from advancing on her rampage._

_Eunsook wants to stop her. She wants to help the poor woman. But how does one stop a knife? How does one still a blade that has been cutting for decades—switching hands and changing targets for lifetimes? How could Eunsook’s steady reasoning and quiet consolations find a way to silence a sword hungry for blood? How can she do anything when she is just as crazy?_

_She must accept the cut. She must watch helplessly as the knife advances on her._

_“Once upon a time,” she whispers to herself. “When I thought I could finally be happy… no,” she purses her lips, cutting the recitation short. Turning away from the frenzy, she shakes her head. “I won’t say it. If I say it, it’ll be true. I won’t say it,” she takes a sip from her glass. “As long as I’m alive, I won’t say it.”_

_A man pulls on her arm, urges her to leave with him. He is familiar to her, but he is still a stranger._

_She yanks herself free of his persuasion. “I will never say it!” she protests to him._

_“Then I will suffer!” Gwiboon screams her judgement when she is only a few steps away. Her own lacerations shine like bright cochineal embroidery on bleached skin._


End file.
